


Tag, You're It

by PercyByssheShelley



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Fallout Kink Meme, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-25
Updated: 2012-11-25
Packaged: 2017-11-19 11:17:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/572687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PercyByssheShelley/pseuds/PercyByssheShelley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arcade didn't know how he kept ending up in this situation with her. He had the empathetic ability of the average housebrick, yet it was him who had sat on the steps of Doc Mitchell's house and explained the concept of transference to her. Him who had brought her a box of snack cakes and pretended that it was surprising that Benny had not turned out to be a stand up guy. Him who had rather forcibly explained that there were no circumstances under which the love of a good woman would persuade Vulpes Inculta to defect from the Legion. </p>
<p>Originally written for the Fallout Kink Meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tag, You're It

Arcade was on his way back from the bathroom when the screaming started. 

It had rattled him the first few times, but it was just one of those things you had to put up with when you lived at the Lucky 38, like occasionally being grounded by Lily or Raul leaving radio parts all over the kitchen table. 

His plan was to head back to the room he shared with Veronica, find his earplugs and pretend nothing was happening. But when he stepped into the hallway, he saw that not everyone was as sanguine about the issue. 

“We talked about this,” he said, crossing his arms and glaring at the Courier. She shot him a guilty look, but didn't let go of the handle to Boone's door. 

“He's upset,” she hissed. 

“Yes, and if you wake him up, the best case scenario is that he'll get even more upset. Worst case, you'll startle him and he'll knock all your teeth out.”

“I could help him.” 

Arcade pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn't know how he kept ending up in this situation with her. He had the empathetic ability of the average housebrick, yet it was him who had sat on the steps of Doc Mitchell's house and explained the concept of transference to her. Him who had brought her a box of snack cakes and pretended that it was surprising that Benny had not turned out to be a stand up guy. Him who had rather forcibly explained that there were no circumstances under which the love of a good woman would persuade Vulpes Inculta to defect from the Legion. 

And now he had to explain to her that hugs couldn't cure Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, when his comfortable bed and a new-to-him issue of Grognak the Barbarian were calling his name. 

He supposed he kept ending up in this situation through process of elimination. Rex and ED-E were great for sympathy, but not terribly forthcoming with advice. Cass' solutions always involved alcohol or violent retribution, and that only worked so many times. Raul refused to acknowledge the possibility that his mija was a sexual being, and would change the subject instantly. Lily was … Lily. 

Veronica, to her credit, tried sometimes. But Veronica was so hung up on their fearless leader herself that any discussion of her romantic problems usually ended with Veronica locked in the bathroom and Arcade on the hook for two little pep talks instead of one. 

“Look,” Arcade reached out and peeled her fingers from the door knob, in the guise of holding her hand. “I can see where you're coming from. Boone is... very nice. He is also a human trainwreck who tried to commit suicide by Legion less than a week ago.”

“But we won, and...” she caught her bottom lip between her teeth, and tears welled in her eyes. 

Arcade patted her hand awkwardly, trying to remember the talk Daisy gave his teenage self when he was bawling over his extraordinarily straight biology tutor. “You are so special. You are smart and funny and very handso- pretty. Very pretty. And someday you are going to find someone who appreciates that. Boone is not that person, and if you put all your energy into him, you won't be open to the right person when he comes along.” 

“You think I'm pretty?” she stared at him wide eyed. 

“Sure, why not.” He put a hand under her elbow and steered her away from the door. 

...

“You know Cass, this would heal a lot faster if you cut down on your drinking,” Arcade commented as he wound a fresh bandage around her ankle. A few weeks earlier she had disarmed a bear trap the old fashioned way. Stimpacks had saved the foot, but the damage was deep enough to put her out of commission for a while. 

“Would me kicking the shit out of you for nagging me reopen the wound?” Cass asked cheerfully. 

“Yes, but-”

“Then me drinking whatever I want is vital to the healing process.” 

Arcade shook his head, but chuckled. “It's looking good either way. You can tell the Courier that we'll be back on the road in a couple of days.” 

“It'll have to wait until she gets back from the Tops.”

“What, again? No wonder we can never afford a decent stock of energy cells.” Arcade gently lifted her foot out of his lap, and set it on the floor. 

“Don't you prefer having her there, instead of here mooning around you all the time?”

Arcade stared at her, wondering if he should adjust the amount of painkillers he was giving her. “What? She's barely spoken to me all week.”

Cass clapped her hands like a toddler. “You haven't noticed yet! Every time I look over she's in your shadow, looking nervy as a spooked Brahmin.”

Arcade waved a hand at her. “I know she doesn't have the best judgement, but that's ridiculous. Even if I wasn't openly gay I would still be the worst possible- oh. No. No no no no no.”

“There it is,” Cass drawled. She leaned over and expertly tipped a shot into his open Nuka Cola. “Buck up. Just ignore her until she fixates on someone new. Like Boone did.”

“That wasn't exactly natural. I had to intervene.” He took a swig of the adulterated cola, and as he waited for the burning sensation in his sinuses to fade, a lightbulb went off. 

...

 

“What are you doing in the laundry room?” Boone asked, nearly making Arcade jump out of his chair. 

“Hiding. What are you doing in the laundry room?”

“Laundry.” He peered over Arcade's shoulder at his notepad. “The King. Pros. Genuinely nice guy. Steady job. Sexy accent,” he read slowly. Arcade bit back an expression of surprise- he'd always had the sniper pegged as functionally illiterate.“Why do you have 'Appears mentally stable' down as a con?” 

“I'm trying to think of someone to set our fearless leader up with. But she definitely has a type, and everyone I come up with is a little too... um...” 

“Mentally stable. Right.” Boone turned to the washing machine, but didn't seem offended. “Michael Angelo.” 

“What?”

“Michael. Angelo.” he repeated slowly. “Nuttier than a pecan pie. But in a harmless way.”

“Boone, you're a genius,” Arcade said, jumping out of his chair. 

“I know,” Boone said, with an air of relief that someone had finally noticed. 

...

“I'm so glad you asked me to come out with you,” the Courier said as he walked her briskly through the Strip later that afternoon. “I need to talk to you about something important. Because you know, we've been friends for a long time, and I feel closer to you than to anyb-”

“You know when would be a great time for a talk? On the way back.” Arcade picked up the pace.

“Are... are you sure? Because its not like Michael Angelo is going anywhere,” she laughed weakly. “We could go get a drink, have a proper talk.” 

“I have a better idea,” Arcade said, “I'll race you there.” 

To his relief, they made it all the way to the warehouse without discussing anybody's feelings. Michael Angelo lit up like one of his own signs when they walked in, so Arcade allowed himself a little optimism that this might actually work. 

Minutes later, they were sitting on a bench, watching her tinker with a neon array that had been giving the artist trouble.“She's really great with this stuff,” Arcade said, leaning in close so that she couldn't hear him. “An absolute genius with a screwdriver. And funny. Did I mention she's funny?”

He felt a bit like he was trying to sell a horse. She has all her original teeth and can run a five minute mile. But Michael Angelo was eating it up, shuffling up next to him so he could hear better. 

“I think I've got it,” she said, wiping her hands on the back of her vault suit. “I was worried that the transformer was blown, but it was just a couple of bad connections. Are you ready to go, Arc?” 

“Whats the hurry?” Arcade didn't actually know how one went about match making. He had picked an appropriate target, and brought them together, but the next step was a mystery to him. Should he grab them and smoosh their heads together like a little girl playing with dolls? 

“Its getting late,” she glanced at her Pip-Boy. 

“Can I use your bathroom?” he asked in desperation. Maybe time alone would do the trick. 

...

He ended up waiting in the bathroom for a full half an hour, just to be safe. 

When he came out, he found Michael Angelo sitting on the edge of his bed, staring dreamily up at the ceiling. He felt a twinge of jealousy- he could write a dozen sonnets just about the man's perfect jawline. 

“Did you and the Courier have a good chat?” he asked hopefully. 

He was rewarded with a goofy smile. Make that thirteen sonnets.“She left a while ago, actually. Something about dinner plans.” 

“Oh.” Perhaps it had been overoptimistic to expect that the answer would be 'Yes, and we hope you'll come to the wedding.' “The two of us could come visit again tomorrow?” 

“You're always welcome here,” Michael Angelo reached out, and rested a hand on his arm. “And you know... you don't always have to bring her.” 

...

Arcade shut the door of the fire stairs as quietly as he could. He stepped out into the hallway in his socks, his shoes swinging in one hand, taking care to step over the board that always creaked. 

“Evening,” Boone grinned at him from the kitchen doorway. “How did it go?”

“He's.. um.. seeing someone else.” Arcade looked at the floor. Sometimes it seemed like Boone could read minds, and he was hoping it didn't work if he refused to make eye contact. 

“Huh,” Boone said, in a tone that suggested that his hope was in vain. “Courier was looking for you earlier.” 

“Are you boys talking about me?” the Courier's door opened a couple of inches, and she slithered out into the hallway, then firmly shut it behind her. 

“Damn,” Boone said under his breath. “Good luck with that.” He slapped Arcade on the shoulder, before retreating rapidly into his bedroom. 

Arcade had to admit that damn was an appropriate reaction, even under the dirty lights of the Lucky 38. She had somehow sourced an intact pair of nylon stockings, and paired them with an impossibly high set of heels that drew the eye up her leg to her short, tight black dress. The tight curve of her waist and the dizzying height of her breasts spoke less of ribbon and lace, and more of boning and leather. The kind of industrial strength lingerie that the Gomorrah would only sell to patrons who knew the password. 

“Can we have that talk now, Arcade?” she pouted at him. The effect of her doe eyed expression was enhanced by a thick layer of black eyeliner and blood red lipstick. 

“Sure,” Arcade's voice squeaked, and he cleared his throat. “Can I say first of all that I am flattered, and you have really put in a stellar effort. If I was inclined to be impressed by any of this in general,” he waved his hand in the general direction of her breasts, “then I would definitely be impressed by you specifically.”

“... thank you?” she said, giving him a puzzled look. 

“What I'm trying to say is that I like you. You have many fine qualities. But you are missing one quality I am looking for, in that you are not a man. Because I am gay.”

She stared at him, her brow furrowed, for what felt like an eternity. “Well Arcade, I'm glad that you felt comfortable sharing that with me. But I actually already knew that.”

“And you're OK?” he felt a great weight lift off him.

“Can we please stop mucking about? I need to talk to you. About Benny.”

“Benny?” Now Arcade was truly lost. 

“A few days ago I went to the Tops, and he's back. And I know that he was kind of a jerk, taking off like he did, but he said he was sorry, and he took me out and we had such a nice time,” the pitch and speed of her voice was rising progressively, “that he asked me to marry him and I said yes please don't yell at me.” 

“Benny?” Arcade repeated. 

“Yes.”

“The man who shot you.”

“...yes.”

“Twice.”

“Yes.” A single tear spilled over and drew a thick black line down her cheek. 

Arcade stared at her, and imagined a future spent gently steering her away from a parade of ill-advised matches. Or a future in which the ruler of Las Vegas was married to an amoral opportunist who had tried to kill her.

Medici graviores morbos asperis remediis curant, he thought. 

“Mazel tov,” he said, sweeping her into a hug.

**Author's Note:**

> Medici graviores morbos asperis remediis curant = Doctors cure the more serious diseases with harsh remedies.


End file.
